Trivium: Beginnings and Endings

Trivium Beginnings & Endings 2014

Vol. III

Staff Prose Editors Piper Gray, ‘14 Chandler Madison, ‘14 Victoria McKenzie, ‘14 Juhi Narula, ‘17 Jana Serini, ‘14 Sydni Sobers, ‘14

Poetry Editors Aditya (Nik) Goyal, ‘16 Jordan McDonald, ‘17

Art Editors Sara Brannan, ‘14 Mary Koger, ‘14

Faculty Advisors Phyllis Everette Ashley Fetterolf Cover art by Mary Koger Back cover art by Sarah Zuech Cover design by Phyllis Everette Layout by Ashley Fetterolf Trivium is a publication of Indian Creek Upper School

Beginnings “Purpose” by Tommy Montgomery ... 1 “Pick One” by Holly Huntz ... 5 “Long Vive France?” by Bryton Smith ... 6 Artwork by Emma Mugford ... 6 “Bailar es Vivir” by John Tahsuda ... 7 Artwork by John Tahsuda ... 8 “Mavericks” by Ryan Baukhages ... 9 Artwork by Mitchell Moravec... 10 “Youth” by Sean Kerns ... 11 “Beyond the Physical Mundanity” by Niconi Tahsuda ... 12 Artwork by Victoria McKenzie ...13

Senior Selections Mary Koger ... 15 Sydni Sobers ... 19 Sarah Zuech ... 22

Endings “Swings” by Maia Brown ... 25 Artwork by Lizzie Hornick ... 26 Three Poems by Erica Argilan ... 27 “The Race” by Aubrey Barringer ... 28 Artwork by Jennifer Gableman ... 28 “What is Life?” by Sunny Chhatani ... 29 Artwork by Emilie Rosenkilde ... 32 “Looking Back” by Mr. Matthew McCormick ... 33 Artwork by Ariana Alexander... 34 “Siren Song” by Erin Barringer ... 35 “The Future” by Mark Thiergartner ... 35 Artwork by Mary Koger ... 36

Purpose

Tommy Montgomery, ‘14 "And this is where the magic happens." Greg smirked at Floyd's comment while walking in to the center of the office. There were computers lining all of the walls. Many stacks of loose papers were littered on the floors and desks. There were two other men in the room, both with headsets covering their ears, their eyes glued to their monitors.

"We're going to station you over here, right next to the window so that you'll be able to look down and keep up with the world every once in a while."

Greg walked over and sat in the chair.

"This seems just fine," he said as he swiveled around and checked out the space.

"So, you need help getting set up or anything?" Floyd asked.

"I'll be fine putting out my own belongings, but I've got to admit, I'm still a little confused on what I'll be doing."

"I'd be happy to walk you through your first time," said Floyd.

"That'd be great," answered Greg.

"Here we go, we're linking in." Greg said as he sat controlling the computer and Floyd talked over his shoulder. A live camera feed popped up on the screen. An elderly man was staring intently at his screen trying to read.

"This one will be easy," said Floyd.

"Can he see us?" asked Greg.

"No, not at all," answered Floyd. "They usually have no idea that we're linked with them, now you'll see the files button in the bottom bar. This gives you access to all his files. What we are looking for is any kind of personal information for this man; credit card and social security numbers, pin numbers for his credit accounts, anything we can use to rob this guy."

"Wow, look at all of this! He has all of his personal information in this file named Matt." Greg said in a surprised tone.

"Yeah, these people who download the virus usually aren't the brightest. Look there at that file named Marcy, I bet it's his wife's information as well."

Sure enough, he found the credit card numbers and pin numbers for the wife.

"So, once you locate the information, you make sure to either write it on one of these forms, or post it all in a file to keep on this computer."

"Ok, well what am I going to do with it?" asked Greg.

"You don't have to worry about that; our man Jay up in the front room deals with all of the fraud for the office, he makes us the money. You just remember to drop the forms off to him at the end of the day."

Greg nodded in agreement. "Alright, sounds easy enough."

"Fantastic, it's great to have you on board. But just remember, we have to be good about what we do, any problems can ruin us, and everyone involved is going down with the ship, so be smart and try not to screw up."

"I understand," Greg stated in a serious tone.

The two men shook hands and Greg sat down to work.

He wrote up his first form and then took one last look at the still perplexed man focused on his computer. Greg shook his head and then closed the tab.

Three weeks later...

1

Greg walked into the office and started his normal routine. He waved at Jay and walked back to his work space. His work days were long. He spent hours linking up with people who accidentally downloaded the virus. He searched around for their secrets, wrote up his forms, and then moved right on to the next sitting duck. Greg started to feel his heart empty out. Every new day brought new regrets. He knew he didn't have many options though. His brother was the one who introduced him to Floyd. Greg was desperate to find any place where he could earn some money. He knew that he needed to cling onto a stable income to move forward in his life, but he thought to himself that there must be a better purpose he could be serving.

...he admired her photos, le ar

ned about her taste in music,

and found out who she was.

About halfway through the day, the server that divided up all of the signals responding to the virus sent a new link to Greg's computer. He opened it up. Greg's eyes lit up for the first time in weeks. There staring back at him in the screen was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her big brown eyes were illuminated by the light from the computer. Her luscious, curly brown hair flowed down her neck and shoulders, outlining her softly curving cheeks. Her expression had such an effortless beauty to it. Greg was too distracted to perform any kind of illegal business. He leaned closer trying to feel her emotions and read her mind. Greg's thoughts raced as he tried to figure out what she might have been doing that led her to their virus. Maybe she was trying to get some new music off the internet, or play some game. Regardless, Greg took it as a sign. He jumped to the conclusion that it must have been destiny. Out of the hundreds of faces that Greg had scanned over in the past few weeks, none of them were even close in comparison to the unique beauty that this one contained. He wanted to know everything about this girl.

Greg examined every one of her files on her computer; he admired her photos, learned about her taste in music, and found out who she was. Her name was Isabella. Greg loved her name. He thought it fit her so well. He felt so close to her knowing about all of the things she put on her hard drive. He had never had such a fantastic, growing feeling inside given to him by a girl. Just as Greg was about to indulge in some more of her personal files, he glanced back at her camera feed. He jumped up out of his chair, watching a man come up behind her in the screen, and then begin to beat her senseless.

Greg yelled and all of the other guys in the room turned and looked at him. "Sorry, stupid spider crawled up my leg."

The other men didn't seem very amused by Greg's comment, they went about their own business again. Greg focused on the computer. Once the man had knocked Isabella out, he dragged her over to the bed in her room. Greg watched closely trying to see the man's face. He could barely make it out. The man started to gather up belongings in Isabella's room. Greg quickly scanned through her files again. He found a party invitation that she had created with her address written on the bottom. Greg took his cordless desk phone and walked over to the bathroom, then he locked the door and dialed 9-1-1.

"Yes, there needs to be help sent to 17 Terrace Avenue in Los Angeles, California right away.

Somebody broke into the house and assaulted the girl living there."

The emergency operator answered him. "I understand sir, I will alert the local police there to get her help immediately... Sir, how is it that you are aware of this crime here in Chicago? Were you on the phone with her or something?"

"Uh..." Greg didn't know what to say.

Frantically, he hung up the phone and collected himself. Then he opened the door to find Floyd standing right in front of him.

"What’s going on, Greg?" he asked.

Greg was surprised and nervous. "Uh... Uh... Well, you see, I was linked with this girl who all of a sudden was attacked and beaten."

"What? Are you serious?" Floyd asked.

"Yes, I watched the whole thing and I... well I had to call the cops."

2

Floyd was just about to lunge at

Greg when they heard a knockin

g on the door.

"What did you just say?"

"I may have just saved her life, the local police are getting notified of the crime."

"Greg, did you just use that desk phone to call 911?"

Greg glanced down at the phone in his hand. "Well yeah, I left my cell phone in my car."

By that time, a few of the men working in the office came up to witness the discussion.

"Greg, did you tell them where you were calling from?" Floyd asked. " No, I... well I hung up on them."

At that moment the crowd of men started freaking out.

Floyd spoke up, "You idiot, they're probably on their way right now coming to find you! Everyone, the cops are coming! We need to destroy everything! Shred all the papers and any kind of evidence to our operation... even the computers. Smash them! Greg, you've jeopardized our company. You're done. Get rid of all of your belongings."

Greg was enraged. "What company?!" he exclaimed, "This is all bullshit! We are ruining people's lives!"

Floyd acknowledged him without saying a word and then turned away in anger to go help.

The office was chaos. Everyone ran in different directions with huge piles of papers in their arms. Greg sat down in his chair and watched everyone tear the place down. They flew out the front door of the apartment one by one after they were finished getting rid of the evidence. Floyd was the last one in the apartment with Greg. He was overwhelmed with piles of papers to shred. Eventually he gave up. He walked over to talk to Greg one last time before he left.

"I started this operation five years ago. I've been tied down to running it for all of that time and now you've ruined it in just one day. I thought we had an agreement," Floyd said.

Greg sat up to talk. "This is wrong Floyd, and it was going to end sooner or later. Your idea very cruel, and you’re a terrible man."

Floyd was just about to lunge at Greg when they heard a knocking on the door.

"This is the police, open up or we're going to break down the door!"

Floyd frantically ran to the bathroom to hide. Greg sat back in his chair as three cops broke in. They looked around and found all of the evidence that Floyd hadn't destroyed, then they walked in to find Greg.

"Who are you?" they asked.

"I’m Greg Panmont. I worked here and was in cahoots with an organization that implanted a virus on the internet to scam people and steal their personal information."

The cops were surprised. There was dead silence for a second but then they quickly jumped on Greg and hand cuffed him. As one of them held him down, reciting his Miranda Rights, another one of the cops went in the bathroom and found Floyd and did the same to him.

Both of the criminals were brought in for questioning at a Chicago police station. Greg confessed everything that he had been doing for the past few weeks. Floyd did the same. Greg never saw him again after that day. They were both put on trial and pleaded guilty. Greg was sentenced to prison for a number of years.

Floyd's sentence was for life. A number of the other men working in the apartment were tracked down and arrested, and received similar sentences. Greg was transported to a prison facility located in Texas. All of the regrets he had about joining the group floated around in his head for some time. He wondered if his actions were the right way to handle the situation or not. He often thought about the girl, Isabella. The image of her beautiful face was starting to fade from his memory. He was losing her forever.

Two years later...

3

The mail boy came around on his normal route past all of the cells in the prison. Greg was reading a book from the prison library when the mail cart halted in front of him. The boy handed him a letter. He opened it. Greg slowly sat down on his bed as he read it to himself. It read:

Dear Greg, I don't know when you will receive this letter, but I can only hope that it will someday reach you so that you will know what I have to say. I have to admit that when I first heard about how I was saved from being murdered in my own house, I was disturbed and confused to learn that you were the one who alerted the police. You disgusted me. I looked into your case, though. Once I observed how honest you were about the exploitive organization you worked for, I came to my senses. I found and read everything I could about you all of the news articles and such. I know that you are more than just some creepy criminal now. After much consideration, I feel like I understand almost everything there is to know about you. It's a really strange feeling. I've realized that it was destiny that brought me to downloading that virus accidentally. I don't know if I would still be alive without you. I've been thinking about you a lot recently and now I'm glad that there was someone looking out for me, even if I didn't know it. Thank you, Greg. You are truly my guardian angel. Whenever you get out, come find me. I think you know where to go.

Love, Isabella Greg laid the letter down next to him on his bed. He sat back and thought to himself for a while. As he stared at the letter again, he started to smile. The memories of her face began to race through his mind again. Greg got up and pulled out a box with his mementos in it. On the bottom of the box, he pulled out the piece of paper with her address on it. Greg no longer regretted any of it. He was enchanted by the letter that he received and he knew that he now had a reason to keep his head up and keep moving forward. He had a good purpose to serve in his life and he had every intention of finding out about it once he was released from jail.

Tommy Montgomery is a senior at Indian Creek Upper School.

4

Pick One Holly Huntz, ‘14

“Mom, let’s go! I’ve been waiting all year for this!” exclaimed Vince. His mom looked up from her paper and then glanced at her husband.

“All right then, let’s get going,” she replied. Vince raced to the door and before his parents could stop him, he ran down the street. He arrived in front of a green building. The building had one glass door that all the kids peered through. The inside of the store was bursting with every type of candy imaginable. Vince slowly pushed the door open and stood there in shock. An explosion of colors filled the room and the smell of sugar entered Vince’s nose.

Every wall had shelves packed with candy bars, Reese’s Cups, and bags of jelly beans. In the middle of the store was a giant machine that dispensed nerds, M & M’s, and gummy bears. Candy Vince had never even heard of were piled up on tables. In the back corner of the store was an orange counter. Behind the counter stood a small lady. She wore a wrinkled black dress and her hair held a yellow flower behind her ear. She looked up and smiled at Vince.

“Why hello there, welcome! Can I help you find anything in particular?” she asked. Vince looked around the room one more time.

“Umm… I’m not really sure what I want. But it’s my birthday today and my parents promised me I could come here and pick out any candy I wanted.”

The lady stared at Vince then a small grin appeared on her face. Slowly she grabbed a box from under the counter. She placed it on the counter for the young boy to look at. It was a golden box no bigger than a tissue box.

Vince walked toward the counter and picked it up. He could see his reflection in the shiny gold material that the box was made of. He looked up at the lady behind the counter. She suspiciously looked around her candy shop.

“Where are your parents my dear?” she asked quietly.

“I don’t know, they were right behind me. They’ll get here soon…but what’s inside?!” asked a very excited Vince.

“Inside…is something no one else has ever seen or experienced,” she replied.

Vince’s eyes grew wide and his heart started racing. He opened the box up and saw four types of candy in a line. The first candy was simple, just a round blue ball, like the top of a lollipop. The second candy wrapped in green foil was squared shaped. The third candy looked like salt water taffy, pink on the outside with a white swirl in the middle. And the fourth candy resembled a Hersey’s Kiss, only the kiss was white, maybe made out of white chocolate, thought Vince.

After examining the four assorted candies Vince looked up and asked, “Do I get all of these?!”

The lady laughed, “No, no. These are very special candies. You can only pick one. Each one grants you a gift…

Well, almost all of them.”

“What do you mean? Like super powers?” Vince asked, confused.

Hesitant to answer, the lady slowly started to explain each candy.

“All I can tell you is, one of the candies will bring you great success in life and financially you will never have a problem.”

“So I’ll become super rich and be able to buy any toy I want?” asked Vince.

The lady laughed, “Yes, you’ll be able to buy anything you want. But let me tell you want the others do.

Another candy will bring you eternal love and the other will make you immortal.”

“Immortal?” interrupted Vince.

“You will live forever,” she replied. Vince’s heart began to race faster and faster. He had no idea what was happening. He pinched himself to see if this was really happening – it was!

“Wait, you forgot about one candy,” he added quickly.

“Ah yes, the last candy,” the lady looked down at all of the candies and pulled at her hair. “The last candy will bring you death. But it’s only one out of three, so I hope you pick the right one.”

Holly Huntz is a senior at Indian Creek Upper School and will be attending Salisbury University in the fall. She has not yet chosen a major, but continues to be interested in French language. She played on the varsity lacrosse team for three years, and was on the cross country team for one year. She wrote “Pick One” in Mr. Monack’s Creative Writing class, which she enjoyed.

5

Long Vive France?

Bryton Smith, ‘15

Disclaimer: The conversation between Pierre 1 and Pierre 2 has been translated into English.

Arthur Adams was born on November 4, 1978 in Watford, England, U.K. He was an outstanding student, and went to Britannia Royal Naval College where he double-majored in chemistry and history.

Upon graduation with distinction, Mr. Adams became Captain Adams.

The saddest day of his life was June 30, 1997, the day Hong Kong was ceded from the British Empire to China. At the end of the day, Adams swore the following oath to himself: “I, Arthur Adams, the descendent of veterans of the Seven Years’ War, the American War for Independence, the French Revolutionary Wars, the Napoleonic Wars, World War I, and World War II solemnly swear to be more loyal to Queen Elizabeth II than all of the other citizens of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, as well as all of the citizens of the other British constitutional monarchies combined, swear to devote the rest of my life to conquering all of the earth for the British Empire, except for the Canadian province of Ontario and the United States of America. I will not conquer Ontario because their motto is ‘Loyal she began, loyal she remains,’ and I will spare the United States because Franklin Delano Roosevelt was president of it. So help me God.” Twenty-six years later, Adams was a powerful admiral in the Royal Navy. He decided that the time had come to turn his oath into a reality, and the first nation to fall to the new British Empire was France.

“Those Pseudacris Regillas, liberty crazed republicans one moment, emperor embracing the next, cheese-consuming, wine-drinking, art-making, biology obsessed, and incomprehensible philosophy debaters!” Adams said to his second-in-command over gin at a pub.

That night his wife, Louise Holmes Adams (b. July 8, 1975 in Liverpool, England, U.K.), a more or less imperialistic literature teacher, had to deal with him going on and on about how H.G. Wells was a better science fiction author than Jules Verne, Charles Dickens was a better author of classic works of literature than Victor Hugo, and Monty Python’s Flying Circus is at least one thousand times more humorous than anything “supposedly humourous” from France.

After forty-five minutes of such venting, Admiral Adams did not even notice that Louise tuned him out and started to grade papers.

At the end of his speech she said, “I heard you say something about Charles Dickens. Could you please repeat whatever you said about him?”

Emma Mugford is a junior at ICS. She loves painting, soccer, basketball, and lacrosse. She enjoyed her second year in 2D Studio Art with Mrs. Briles.

6

The next day he ordered the men and women in uniform under his command to cross the English Channel.

It was 7 A.M. Paris time on the northern coast of France on September 17, 2023. Pierre 1, a French Air Force officer, exclaimed, “Why is there a Royal Navy fleet heading towards the northern coast?!”

Pierre 2, another French Air Force officer, replied, “It is strange. I do not know of any U.K.-France military training exercises today. Furthermore, I see that planes are taking off from the carriers and are heading towards Paris.” Pierre 1, contemplating the situation, said, “Hey, would you like to drink this bottle of pinot noir with me? I was drinking it this morning on my commute, but there is still much left.”

Fifteen minutes later, Admiral Adams delivered the following message to all personnel in his fleet: “I know this seems unconscionable to attack a NATO ally, but you will see that I am taking the right course of action. Remember your ancestors who saved Canada from the French, remember your ancestors who fought the patriots and French to try to keep the United States as British colonies long before the honourable Franklin Delano Roosevelt was born, remember your ancestors who upheld the Union Jack against Napoleon! This may seem unrealistic, but I assure you that the British Empire’s night will soon end. We wait until after work to drink, but at least three-fourths of the French military is probably drunk from red wine by this reasonable time of 6:15 A.M. GMT. Thank you for your continued patriotism.”

The good admiral was right. By the end of the day France looked like the way the northern part of it looked during World War I, elections for the British House of Commons were scheduled throughout France for the following week in accordance with Adams’ old Whig view on taxes, and the now-minor resistance to British rule had retreated to the Alps. The news of France falling to the U.K. was cause for celebration in the U.K., but the international community expecting someone to sooner or later take over “those Pseudacris Regillas, liberty crazed republicans one moment, emperor embracing the next, cheeseconsuming, wine-drinking, art-making, biology obsessed, and incomprehensible philosophy debaters!” did not pay much attention to the invasion of France. In fact, outside of the U.K. and France, it made only a 150 word article in an American newspaper called The Baltimore Sun. The End (of a Beginning)

Bailar es vivir John Tahsuda, ‘16

Bailar es vivir es abandonar la vida normal escapar de este mundo cruel ¡Ja! como puede ser cruel cuando nada existe nada más que

To dance is to live to abandon normal life escape from this cruel world Ha! how it can be cruel when nothing exists nothing more than

Bailar es dejar de existir

To dance is to cease existing

Bryton Smith is a junior at Indian Creek Upper School. He is interested in physics, mathematics, astronomy, history, and foreign languages. His hobbies include hiking, camping, and traveling. His favorite class is U.S. History. He would like to thank Mr. Szech for teaching him about history for three years, including European History last year.

7

John Tahsuda

John Tahsuda is a sophomore at Indian Creek Upper School. He enjoys participating in the school plays and musicals, as well as helping out the dance team. Outside of school, he dances at XSquad Dance studio in Crofton, MD. 8

Mavericks Ryan Baukhages, ‘14

It is a vicious beast. This undulation of thousands of tons of water can be a swift killer, but is also a beautiful piece of nature. The vast amount of power these waves hold could easily destroy any surfer.

If you were to be caught in one of these waves, you would be torn apart. However, this is what draws those fortunate few who get to ride these miraculous creatures. The feeling of a few inches of a fiberglass surfboard between you and a raging beast, that wants nothing else but to swallow you whole, is like a drug that you cannot get enough of. However, I would not know that feeling, only hearing about it second-hand through the ones who have dared those waves. Most of those people who have shared their stories with me are family. With generations of my family growing up and living on the north shore of Oahu, Hawaii, surfing is ingrained in my genes.

Generations of Thompsons were pro-surfers, riding the biggest and strongest waves around the islands of Hawaii. However, the best one of my family, by far, was my mother. Growing up, all she did was surf. At the age of four, she was surfing circles around most people who were four times her age.

Her success in surfing can be traced to my grandfather. His whole life revolved around surfing. He was a pro-surfer, signed with some of the biggest surf companies in the world, and he passed his love of the surf to his daughter. All they would do was surf together. It was the connection that gave them such a strong bond. She was the only thing that was bigger in his life than surfing. When I lost my mother I was not the only one who was devastated. It destroyed my grandfather. He was the one who found my mother’s broken surfboard washed up on the beach after she had gone missing when I was about thirteen years old. He found it near on the beach near the last place she was seen. It was split in half with a huge chunk taken out of it by the jaws of a shark, which could only mean the worst. When my mother died, my grandfather lost the most important thing in his life, and when she passed she also took with her his love for surfing. He turned his back on what used to be his life. He burned or locked up anything that reminded himself of surfing. He blamed surfing for the death of his beautiful daughter. So naturally, when I moved in with my grandfather, I had to leave my love for the ocean at the door.

All of my life the ocean has called to me. Even as a child I had a great interest in the ocean. My mother would take me to the beach with her as a baby, relying on my neighbor to watch me as she surfed. I wanted to be just like my mother. So when my neighbor was not paying attention to me and just lying on the beach and tanning, I would wander off to the edge of the ocean. I would wade into the water and let the surf crash over me, sending me tumbling down the shore with the current. I loved it.

However, this scared the shit out of my neighbor. When she realized where I had roamed off to, she would chase me down the beach in a whirl of panic. When I turned five, my mother gave me my first surf board. She would take me out and teach my how to read the swells to tell when the perfect waves were coming. I could be out there all day with my mom. I loved the ocean. It was my calling.

What called to me most were the Mavericks. These were the huge waves that only swelled when the conditions were just right. It was the “combination of the right type of winds and the right type of luck,” as my mother always used to say. When these conditions were right, the most magnificent waves would be created, most of them cresting at 40 or 50 feet. This is what I longed to surf. My mother always told me she would teach me how to surf them one day. However, my dreams of riding those waves died when my mother did.

Unlike my grandfather, I did not turn away from surfing. Instead of turning my emotions in, I turned them outward. I embraced surfing. It was what helped me cope with the loss of my mother.

When I was out in the ocean, I felt my mother out there with me. Surfing was something that had drawn me close to my mother. Continuing to surf after she had died was a way to remember her. When I paddled out to meet the waves, nothing could get me down because she would always be there with me.

9

I was getting into fights at school and my grades were failing. I did not care about anything and I could not handle my emotions. I was on a downward spiral. I had lost both of the things that kept me stable. My grandfather did not help me either. He was not there for me when I needed someone, too wrapped up in his own emotions. However, all of this stopped when I found my mother’s journal. She had kept a surfing journal of all her big surfs and their conditions. This is a common thing to do among surfers. But this journal was different. In the beginning of the journal, my mother wrote down all the information you need to know to surf the Mavericks. It said where to go, what to look for, how to read the waves, and how to train for actually riding them. It was like my mother left it there just so I could find it and fulfill my dream. Even in her death, she still was looking out for me.

This year the winds w ere especially strong.. .

So I began training. I would get up in the morning and work out, then go to school. After school I went straight to work at a pizza restaurant near my house. I needed to work in order to get enough money to buy a new surfboard. After work I would go home and study, then workout again. I did this for three straight months, finding time in between to go to the ocean and study the waves. If I was going to ride the big waves I needed to know everything about them. All of my hard work was leading up in preparation for the fall season. This was the time of the year when the winds changed, blowing from the west instead of the east, picking up the cool air coming from the western pacific. This year the winds were especially strong.

Finally, I had enough money after those three months to buy a new board. It meant so much more to me since I put my blood, sweat, and tears into that board. I spent a little extra money to have the word Ohana painted on it. It means family. I did it to show that I was doing this for my mother, the one who was the soul of my family. When the day finally came, I was ready. With only a few weeks left in the fall season, this was going to be my best shot at achieving my dream.

I woke up early that morning. I could not eat anything I was so nervous. I got dressed quickly and gathered everything I would need. I snuck out of the house trying my best not to wake my grandfather. I grabbed my surfboard, which I had hidden under our porch for the past few weeks, and headed for the beach.

The walk seemed like it took hours, though it was just a few miles from my house.

It was a secluded beach that my mother had written about in her journal. I had never seen her surf here before, and only a few locals knew about the spot. I stepped on the beach just as the sun was beginning to rise. The sand was still cold from the night but it felt good on my feet, helping to calm my nerves. I kissed my board and began to wade out into the ocean. The water was eerily quiet, though the waves that were breaking were at record heights. It was as if even the waves were watching to see what I would do.

Mitchell Moravec is a senior at ICS. Everyone calls him Marcos. He does not have a secret brother who hides in the shadows and likes to paint. He is Iron Man.

10

When I finally made it past the breaking point, I paused for a moment and just soaked it all in.

The area was a secluded cove with big rocks all along the shoreline. The reef enclosed the cove making the water very shallow all throughout this area. The coral reef was razor sharp so one wrong move and I would be thrown under and dragged all along the reef, tearing me apart. I did not want to think about that. I just needed to do it. I paddled in a bit and got ready. As a substantially large wave came my way I began to paddle hard. The wave picked me up and began to carry me with tremendous speed. As I was about to drop in on the wave a thought crossed my mind. I questioned whether I was ready for this or not. In that split second of hesitation, I faltered. My board got caught up in the wave and I was thrown from it. Luckily, I was thrown backward away from the wave. I managed not to get dragged under. My board was not as lucky.

When I got thrown off the cord attaching me to it snapped and my board got carried away towards shore. By the time I made it back to the shore, I found it broken in half, decimated by the rocks along the shore. Disheartened, with my only chance of riding these special waves destroyed in the rocks along with my board, I began to walk away from the beach. All of a sudden he was there. My grandfather was at the entrance to the beach with a look I had never seen before on his face. It was as if he had been crying but he had look of understanding on his face. He had finally understood what this means to me, and the passion I have for the ocean reminded him of my mother. In his hand was his surfboard that he locked away after my mother died. He handed it to me and did not say a word. With that transaction, my grandfather gave me his support. I took the board and headed back into the ocean.

When I got out to the break point for a second time I did not stop to think, I just acted. Just as I got out there, the biggest swell I had ever seen began to build. The wave must have been growing to 70 feet high looming over me, casting its shadow over me. However, I did not think, I just went after it.

The wave picked me up with incredible speed and lifted me high into the air. Right as the wave began to break, I dropped in. The drop was at a ninety degree angle. As I was dropping straight down to the curve of the wave, I was hit with this feeling. The feeling of longing and desire was no longer there. The hole that was torn from me when my mother died did not feel so gaping as it once did. This magnificent wave gave me a sense of completeness. It was the feeling that I should be doing this for the rest of my life. This is what I was born to do.

Youth Sean Kerns, ‘14

He ruined my youth With name calling and pushing me down He took my signed baseball by Babe Ruth He took it outside to the mound I never got it back He took my signed Joe Namath football He took it to the old school yard I never got it back You couldn’t have been a worse bro But you’re family so I have to forgive you every Christmas or so Ryan Baukhages is a senior at Indian Creek Upper School.

Sean Kerns is a senior at ICS and will be attending Anne Arundel Community College in the fall. He wants to study history or sound engineering. He would like to thank his teachers for encouraging him to write outside his comfort zone.

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Beyond the Physical Mundanity Niconi Tahsuda, ‘16

Oh, what trials must be faced! To see beyond the fabric of my world, to breathe in timeless beauty of the night sky. This path I seek, freed from the lifeless void of being, to be in the fullness of life before it goes by. I do not know if I will see what I seek, if the spirits above shall hear.

Maybe too those below shall join their voice, and create harmony here. The sacred cliffs are not far, but the weight...

Oh, burden, of this life to mar! I am almost blind, blind with desperate fear, Yet the course is so clear. To be bound in this prison of death, Is to set my spirit free....

No other place can serve, for my dreams told me here. This I know in my heart, though I be not a seer. The deep foundations, of earth and stone, Shall lift me above, and no longer will I be alone. Nearby are the waters, cold to cleanse my soul, Wood shall birth the fire, to focus the willful mind. Drink of the winds, to keep my spirit full, As the ancients whisper secrets, they of my line.

At last I reach my journey’s end, yet I have just begun, to call upon the sacred world, to soar past the material limit. Gaze beyond the blackened sky, past the hidden sun, and let the old strength again ascend, to the highest summit. No more delay, nor doubt nor despair. The time I once only wished for, so near, it is there...

Unexpectedly there came a presence greater than anything he had ever known, as an illuminated being came from the West. It drew closer, and he saw that it was a man, yet dressed in strange garb. Wearing the robes of an age gone by, his unadorned hair flowing down to his waist, and carrying an object he could not identify, the man approached and spoke. He could not understand what he said, yet this being smiled, a sign of hope.

With a gesture, he was beckoned forward. Without hesitation, without delay, he stepped into the now redtinged clouds, and his rebirth began...

From the dark cloak, to a sign of hope. To awaken from sleep, the wisdom beneath. A whisper of strength, a mirror’s view. The phoenix’s rebirth, to ascend anew.

Though I dare not speak of what I saw, for to do so, Would defile the meaning, to which I say no.

Nevertheless, I dream again, the words the spirit spoke, of which I took careful note. I have waited all my life to create, past, present, future return. To the whole cycle ornate, Which now is my light to burn. My life now lies before my weary eyes, Through darkness and light, through truth and lies. I who chose to walk by night, Now with hope, to day I turn my sight.

Niconi Tahsuda is a sophomore at Indian Creek Upper School who enjoys quiet, darkness, and the Dionysian view of life. He intends to use his poem, “Beyond the Physical Mundanity,” in an opus soon.

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Victoria McKenzie is a senior at Indian Creek Upper School and has an interesting medical condition of having her hand muscles control her lungs—medically, SHE MUST DRAW TO LIVE. She loves painting, reading, and Ms. Fetterolf. She plans to attend AACC and then try not to starve in her career as an artist.

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Senior Selections Mary Koger Sydni Sobers Sarah Zuech

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Magenta

Mary Koger ‘14 My evil twin would be magenta. No, not painted the color magenta. Her name would not even be “Magenta.” My evil twin would personify everything that is disgusting and undesirable about the color magenta; from the stale seasick feeling she causes, to her brash and rude personality.

A little explanation is needed: I have a type of synesthesia called ordinallinguistic personification. Synesthesia is a neurological condition that many people have, where the perceived senses are cross-wired, creating a sound when they see movement, a taste when they hear a name, or even a color in their mind’s eye when they listen to music. For me, I associate a personality and its associated color to numbers, letters, shapes, and people. So if I say that a friend’s color is different that day, then I mean that it seems like something is bothering them because they are acting strange. Ordinal-linguistic personification also makes math a little difficult, because since “nine” is a sweet strawberry-colored older sister, how could she equal 3x? “Three” is an orangey and loud younger brother, while “x” is a quiet grey and soft -spoken gender-neutral person who wears a fuzzy cardigan in need of a lint roller.

My own personality colors are a mystery to me, since I know that I can aspire to be anyone or any color that I want to be. The colors I want to be are cerulean (bold and adventurous), soft yellow (thoughtful and nostalgic), dark brown (stable and consistent), and dark blue-green (creative and clever, with dry wit and good communication skills).

The exact opposite of me — my evil twin — would be magenta. Magenta is a loud and rude person, the kind who revels in publicly humiliating other people; especially the ones she knows have social anxiety. She will boss other people around while she sits there and does nothing, and turns in her homework late or breaks a promise with no regret or guilt. She obnoxiously points out other people’s faults while ignoring her own, and I can easily imagine her criticizing everything and being happy with nothing – even the universities she wanted to go to and jobs she applied for.

I do not like magenta. I do not like people who have magenta in their personality, and even more so I do not want to be any part of her. Instead, I’m always working on improving my own personality so I don’t embody a single magenta-like trait. I’m going to become more what I want to be –what’s nice is that I literally have a rainbow of decisions to choose from.

Mary Koger is a senior at Indian Creek Upper School. She will be attending Arcadia University in Pennsylvania, but will first being completing a study abroad program at Stirling University in Scotland in the fall. She plans on combining her interest in biology with her love of art to major in Scientific Illustration. She’d like to thank her friends, her brother, her teachers, and everyone who has pushed her to succeed.

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Crowd Mary Koger

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Two Reindeer Mary Koger

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Art Class Mary Koger

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Sydni Sobers is a senior at Indian Creek Upper School. She plans on attending University of Maryland to study Materials Engineering and Art in hopes of later creating her own studio. She would like to continue writing and drawing throughout college.

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Sydni Sobers 20

Sydni Sobers 21

Sarah Zuech 22

Sarah Zuech

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Sarah Zuech is a senior at Indian Creek Upper School. She will be attending University of Maryland, College Park in the fall. She enjoys drawing, Liam Neeson, sleeping, caffeine, and contributions from viewers like you.

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Swings Maia Brown, ‘17

When I was in kindergarten with beads on the end of my braids I frolicked across the playground and played on the swings.

You approached me with your light-up sneakers, happy as can be, And you began swinging with me, trying to swing higher than I could.

And from then on we weren't just classmates; we were best friends.

Two little kids, so different and so alike all at once.

In fifth grade, you lost someone you loved.

I comforted you as best I could, wanting you to be happy.

You cried and cried, and I kept hugging you as if that would fix things.

And I told you "It's okay" a thousand times before you actually started listening.

In seventh grade we were closer than ever.

We went everywhere together, and I just loved being with you.

You promised we'd be best friends forever and ever.

And I believed you, why wouldn't I? In eighth grade you broke your promise.

You were pulled into a new group of friends - friends who were better than me.

And you haven't come back since.

But I've always secretly hoped you would.

You never thought once about leaving me behind But I still have our memories, enough to fill a thousand books.

Too many for me to just forget like you did.

One day, I can't remember which, when the air was warm and the sun was shining, I went back to the playground.

They've changed some things since then, but the swings remained exactly the same.

Same place, same rusted poles supporting them, same memories that came with them.

It hurt me to see them. Even after all these years.

And it made me want to tell you that if you ever want to come back, If you ever need me for anything, I'd do whatever it takes to see you, And welcome you with open arms.

Maia Brown is a freshman at Indian Creek Upper School. Her favorite things to do are writing and dancing. She wants to be a Lit major in college, and hopes to become a teacher or an author.

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Lizzie Hornick is a junior at Indian Creek Upper School. She hopes to attend Pepperdine University. She has loved art ever since she was little, and she also enjoys Math. She would like to thank Mrs. Briles for helping with her art for the past three years, and for being a great artist from which to learn.

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Three Poems Erica Argilan, ‘17

Shackled With a flip flap flutter I take to the sky.

I’m a little black bird, just watch me fly!

Swish swoop swirl, dive and dip.

I wish to leave behind the whip.

I want to leave behind my cage, For it fills my insides with bubbling rage.

My master fills me with longing and sorrow, For happiness today, and freedom tomorrow.

I know if I flee, I’ll be sent to my grave.

But I’ll die here too, for I am his slave.

Storm Liquid diamond, droplets of glass; Drip from the sky into the grass.

Falling stars like crystal tears; Make the colors of the earth smear.

Tops of trees into skies of gray; Fade like night does into day.

Echoes of happiness and pain; Fall from the clouds as drops of rain.

When Dreams Take Flight Lift your wings and start to fly.

Do not be afraid to try.

Spread your fins and learn to float.

Don’t be afraid to rock the boat.

Stretch your legs and take a walk.

Don’t be afraid to speak out and talk.

You might be bullied, but no need to scream.

Don’t be afraid, and learn to dream.

Erican Argilan is a freshman at Indian Creek Upper School. She dances after school four days a week. She loves art, performing, chorus, and math. She was inspired to write these poems by her own experiences and the experiences of others.

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The Race Aubrey Barringer, ‘14

Aubrey likes to sail laser Radials Hiking out, pulling the main sheet, thinking About what his next move will be: winning The regatta will be mine if I pull an aerial Water crashing and bashing against the deck The raging winds blowing hard and fast It beats the ragged sail against the mast I am beginning to be a nervous wreck Watching, preparing and planning my move My competitors should clear the way Because my Laser and I are going to rule the day I am fierce when I get in the groove And when the day of sailing is done I am happy to know I sailed the best race I could run.

Jennifer Gabelman Aubrey Barringer is a senior at Indian Creek Upper School. He will be attending Niagra College in the fall. He loves his little sister, Erin, and sailing.

Jennifer (Jenna) Gabelman is a freshman. She enjoys playing field hockey, lacrosse, swimming, and indoor field hockey. She loves painting, drawing, ceramics, and glass blowing. She would like to attend either MICA, ASU, or study abroad. She would like to thank her teachers for supporting her this year.

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What is Life?

Sunny Chhatani, ‘14

People around the world often say “live your life,” “life is good,” “this is real life.” What does that really mean? Some may think it means that one should enjoy life, or try to be happy, or simply a harsh welcome to the real bitter and unfair life. Has anybody wondered, am I really experiencing life? Nobody can experience life all the way around; there are billions of people with different lifestyles and different mentalities about the way life should be lived. Perspectives about life can differ greatly; some have problems with love, others with finances. However, each situation depends on the individual who experiences it. How can someone experience life as a whole? The only way is to become someone who lives in a whole different reality, which might be better or worse.

It was a hot Saturday afternoon, right around three o’clock. This was not just a regular Saturday, it was the day of the biggest, most popular, richest, football club, Real Madrid, was going to play their ultimate rival, FC Barcelona. This game, known as “El Clásico,” is the most watched sporting event in the world, easily beating the Super Bowl. Friends and family were all waiting very anxiously for the starting whistle. It was a very significant game for both teams, the final of La Copa del Rey. Tension was building as the players came out to the pitch after the warm ups, ready to play.

The Bernabeu was at full capacity; each spectator had a white or gold paper that would all be put up at the same time to become the enormous Real Madrid logo. As the team started to come out, the chips, pretzels, and other snacks stopped crunching as the spectators all hoped Real Madrid would win.

The game was intense; players for both teams were fighting for each and every disputed ball. It was a battle in the pitch, twenty two players hungry for the ball. Every chance for Barcelona was a potential heart attack for me, and probably the majority of Spain and the other millions of fans watching the game around the world. I was getting hot. Real Madrid had chances to score, but of course they did not put them away. Every slight dangerous play for and against real Madrid had me jumping out of my seat.

The minutes went by very quickly; the score was 0-0 and overtime was looking closer and closer as the time kept following its natural speed.

During the last minute of play, I accepted the fact that overtime was inevitable, but perhaps Cristiano Ronaldo did not. It was a lovely cross by Di Maria as Ronaldo hunted the ball in the air buried it in the net and that is when it all got started.

As Ronaldo celebrated that goal, the photographers took pictures that would be featured in all of the following day’s newspapers. As the whole stadium chanted his name, I thought about how someone like Ronaldo lived a totally different life than I. All kinds of questions popped up in my mind. How would it be, living like Ronaldo? A life that I wish I had, but most likely never would. That night was supposed to be a happy one, but I was not feeling it. I felt rather unsuccessful and depressed, thinking about how I would be stuck with this life forever. That night I wished I had the opportunity to change my life.

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My alarm went off at 7 am; it was time for another boring day at school, doing many things that I will never use in real life, going to practice, coming back late to an uncomfortable bed and a pile of homework. I turned off the alarm. I felt different, a lot bigger. I had been working out hard, maybe it was finally paying off? I realized I was in a king-sized bed with silk sheets; I knew for a fact that I could not afford this! My room was huge. There was a flat screen TV in front of my bed. Where was I? I heard a knocking on the door, and a maid came in with ten different types of breakfast on a cart.

“Sir all of this is fit for your workout diet.”

I pinched myself, punched myself, and poured a glass of water on myself, but I was still on the same room, sitting there with a delicious breakfast on the cart. I got up and another maid walked in, but this one handed me clothes: a Real Madrid shirt, short, and socks.

“Would you like your massage before practice, sir?”

I looked in the mirror and I could not believe my reflection.

I was Cristiano Ronaldo.

I started scratching the mirror to make sure it was just not picture; the maid was staring at me.

I grabbed her and shook her.

“Tell me the truth: Who am I? What am I doing here?”

Very scared, she replied, “I am sorry, sir?”

I yelled once again. “Who am I?” Stuttering, she answered, “Cristiano Ronaldo.”

I opened the bedroom door and ran downstairs. Everything was so clean and well decorated.

There were a two staircases leading downstairs to the front door. Still very confused, I went back upstairs got dressed and left for practice.

It was fun; I was faster and stronger than ever, everybody looked up to me. After practice I went out and fans were all over me. It may sound bad, but I loved it. I walked out and was able to get any girl I wanted, or anything I wanted for that matter. I was rich, and my job was to play a game, the “beautiful game.” I did not have responsibilities other than playing well and keeping in shape. A whole country looked up to me; millions of other people wished they were me. It was incredible being one of the best footballers in the whole world. Match day came, and we won 1-0. I scored, now that I was Ronaldo. I was the hero, to think of the life I was missing out on before this! The day ended with a great back massage and, finally, it was time for bed.

do. l a n o R o n a i t s i r I was C

I woke up the next morning, covered in sweat. Was this another dream? After falling asleep on one of the biggest beds I have ever seen, I woke up on the floor. I was dressed in very poor clothing, outside there were many houses that looked old and uninhabitable. The room’s wall paper was falling apart and the floor was black, which was not its natural color. It was very small with a tiny bed that was being used by an old man. I was confused and walked outside. I saw a Nigerian flag... where was I? I walked five miles to get water two times a day. There was no TV and little food. Life was tough, but suddenly the old man hugged me and said, “Son, go take to sleep for little, you have done enough work.”

My family was all I had; I woke up and cleaned the house. My whole day was busy doing work, and the old man said, “Go to sleep. You have to work tomorrow at five in the morning.” Although I prefer Ronaldo’s life, I had a family much like my real one.

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I woke up the next morning, hoping I was back to my boring old life. Instead, a man very loudly woke me up. I only heard gun shots and people yelling outside. I went out and everyone was dressed in military clothes. They made me run two miles and the do hard workouts. I could not stop and to top it off, the general was yelling in my face. Any second I could get called to fight in the civil war. Even though I was not at war, that is all I think about. I went three nights without sleep. The food, if you can even call it food, was intolerable. It was nonstop work. There were sergeants dying, bullets penetrating body parts and destroying them, countless men were paralyzed. That could be me and any moment; this might be my last day in this world. This is the hardest life; the only thing I want is to go back to my warm and safe house.

I woke at five ready to run, but I was not in my bunk. I was in a town house. I had some chores, but not many. I had a TV and videogames, however, my family was not there with me. They were away at work, and we were not close like when I was poor. We did not have money, either, like when I was Ronaldo. It was a pretty decent lifestyle, but I missed my family and wondered if I was even going to spend another Sunday watching a Real Madrid game again. I had many college problems, but nobody to help me with it. I needed my family’s support! I felt very frustrated and wondered if I had done something wrong in life to deserve this punishment.

I woke up the next day and it felt like home, in fact it looked like my room. I started to touch everything: my bed, TV, closet. Is this really my house, my room, and my life? I ran downstairs, hoping to see my family. There she was: my grandmother, cooking her typical Peruvian food. I sprinted to her and hugged her.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing, I just missed you so much,” I replied. My brother came home after work, and I also hugged him.

He pushed me off and asked, “What do you want?”

“Nothing. I missed you so much!”

He gave me a confused look and went upstairs.

her t o n a r e t t e ch b u m w o h r . e d t t r a a h m k o r n o : ys w son s a e l w l y a m o t d t e rtan o p I learn m i s i t i ks, o o l e f i l s ’ person

I hoped I was not transported to another life ever again. I learned the different perspectives of life and how in reality I lived real life. I learned my lesson: no matter how much better another person’s life looks, it is important to always work hard. If I wanted to be like Ronaldo, I should work harder and try to reach that goal with my own hard work. I also learned how people have much worse lifestyles than I do; I should not take my resources, health, and family for granted. Understanding that lifestyles are made—not given—is key. Someone should always try to be the best they can be. To be the best as a person means helping others; if this is done, no one will have a bad lifestyle.

Sunny Chhatani is a senior at Indian Creek School. He was born in Lima, Peru and migrated to the U.S. when he was 11 years old. His favorite pastime is soccer. He will be attending St. Mary’s College in the fall, with a soccer scholarship.

He hopes to be the best player on the team while earning good grades. He would like to thank his teachers at ICS.

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Emilie Rosenkilde is a junior at Indian Creek Upper School. She is originally from Denmark. She has always loved art, and coming to Indian Creek helped her to appreciate and love art even more.

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Looking Back

Mr. Matthew McCormick, Dean of Students Looking back, 2005 was a big year, one of the biggest in my life, actually. I turned thirty and rewarded myself by buying my dream car: a Jeep Wrangler (aim high, right?). Over that summer, my wife and I had gotten our house just the way we had envisioned it: she with her reading room complete with comfy chair, and I with my video game paradise next door. Then, that fall, life changed with the revelation that one of our favorite rooms would need to become a nursery. Within a month of that discovery, I was awarded a promotion: I was to be our new Upper School’s first Dean of Students. Primary mandate of that job? “Go get a Masters. It doesn’t matter what – just get one.”

When considering to what school or program I should apply, I didn’t immediately find a “fit.” I looked at several, but my heart was far from aflutter at nearly all of them. My problem was – and continues to be – that I was not interested in just one “thing,” but instead how all “things” were connected. Going back to my application essay, I found a selection that says it best: I’ve always had too many interests; said “yes” to too many things just because they seemed interesting. Our home library has everything from Shakespeare to Shulz, from scientific studies on String Theory to craft books on stringing beads, from Who Wrote the Bible? to Who Moved My Cheese? How was I to specialize? Nothing seemed to grab me.

As a teacher, I’m intrinsically aware that I must be motivated by happiness and not monetary gain. Choosing a specialty just for the letters after my name would be ludicrous. That’s when I found it: the John’s Hopkins Master of Liberal Arts Program.

It’s cliché, but true that I loved every class I took in the program. I even grew to love the one class I didn’t at the time, but I won’t get into that. Each semester it was exceedingly difficult to choose which class to take. It always seemed that every description spoke to some part of me, or some interest I had. It was plain dumb luck that my first class was Philosophy of the Universe with Professor Dick Henry. A physics class without math? How could I not bite? I didn’t realize it at the time, but that class would actually prove to be a golden thread that wove its way throughout the rest of my remaining MLA classes, tying them together in surprising ways. That quantum mechanics related to religion and theater and nature writers and Shakespeare

and King Arthur and the Dead Sea Scrolls and mythology and Greek art and science fiction films made perfect sense by the end of my run in the MLA. All things connect.

Within the MLA, all people connect too. Indeed thanks to the wonders of Facebook and its ilk, I remain friends with a handful of fellow students. Certainly Melissa Hilbish would count as a friend. She was an unquestionably fabulous instructor, and maintained a lively class. We keep in touch often. I can also say, though, that I am not special because of that fact. Melissa is a great friend to all of us alumni. Just as the program taught us about connections between disciplines, she connects us as all as people.

In the closing thoughts of my portfolio, I wrote about how the MLA made me a better teacher, student, and person. However, my favorite statement from the essay took a spin on the learner as vessel idea: I am no longer an empty vessel; I am an active vessel, always trying to be full and empty at the same time. I look for connections. I attempt synthesis.

I continued with: The paths relating to others are no longer jumbled with thickets of different backgrounds, preconceived notions, or upbringings. Instead, the path is clear to share knowledge and gain from one another. This is true of a new parent I may meet on back-to-school night or meeting my wife for lunch. Better relationships make for stronger bonds. I am truly a better person for going through the MLA. The Jeep is gone and our home is littered with the plastic toys of our two daughters. Life has changed since 2005, and all for the better. The degree certainly has helped me on paper – I received another promotion – but that pales in comparison to what it has done for me as a fellow human on this crazy rock called Earth.

This idea of being an active vessel has stayed with me, even being a few years out of the program. I am a better person having gone through the MLA. My relationships with people are stronger than they were. I continue to make connections between disciplines and my web of knowledge is made stronger by their woven strands. For that, and much else, I thank the MLA program. Congratulations on reaching fifty years, and here’s to hundreds more.

Matt McCormick is the Associate Head and Dean of Students at the Upper School. He is the Performing Arts technical director and the current stage director for the fall dramas. Matt earned his Masters of Liberal Arts from Johns Hopkins in 2011 and teaches AP Literature and Composition as well as Human Development. He is married to Lower School Admissions Director Tiffany McCormick and father of Campbell (Class of ’24) and Rooney (Class of ‘29).

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Ariana Alexander is a junior at Indian Creek Upper School. She enjoys art and hopes to continue to hone her talent in the near future. She plans to pursue her interests in fashion and event planning in college.

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School Days: Poems Erin Barringer,’17 & Mark Thiergartner, ‘17 Siren Song by Erin Barringer The shiny doors open a portal to a secret domain Its mysteries beckon to me like ice-cream on a hot day Inside a cacophony of sounds assaults my ears like the staccato of a jackhammer Sights, smells all new to me overload my senses.

I am here to mine an untapped vein of the most precious thing in the universe, knowledge.

Each classroom is a world unto itself A fountain of learning and knowledge that I yearn to drink from I find myself traveling with other pilgrims, we are all on the journey to a greater knowledge.

Our minds, notebooks and backpacks all ready to receive The gifts of learning absorbed into our brains’ grey folds.

Each day holds the promise of something new Mysteries unlocked, darkness banished, wonders beheld Friendships gained and lost Peals of laughter rebound down the hallways like a dozen basketballs Quiet sobs in a bathroom, accusatory stares or tempers’ flares tell of illusions shattered like glass.

The cafeteria, the library, the playing fields, all of them verdant with crops of experience waiting for the pilgrims to harvest.

One bittersweet day four years from now my fellow pilgrims and I will go through the shiny door one last time, then a new world will beckon with more mysteries to be unfolded.

The mysteries will sing a siren song that we must heed.

The Future by Mark Thiergartner The grass waves. The gale pounds through The oaks.

An old buck chews on A sapling. What sower, in time past, Built the old barn, lying on The hill near the forest? There are Wild turkeys roaming the fields.

The stones of the path near the Field swept away. Millions of starlings Impede the sun's rays. The gale Buffets the stone school's sides.

The studying teenagers gone.

Their lockers lie empty, doors Ajar. The schoolteachers Cars and trucks are gone. Only The accolades on the wall Remain. I stand at a distance And watch the scene, and the solitude Allows me to think. The past Has passed and shall not return, but Who can tell what the future will bear?

Erin Barringer is a freshman at Indian Creek Upper school. Erin loves playing field hockey and lacrosse. She really wants to go to Hopkins University.

Mark Thiergartner is a freshman at Indian Creek Upper School. He wrote his poem, “The Future,” for an assignment in his World Literature I class with Ms. Everette.

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Mary Koger

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A Note from the Faculty Advisors Dear Indian Creek students, faculty, staff, and families, During a Humanities Department meeting in the early fall of 2013, Mr. Charles Voros asked a fateful question: “Who is willing to take over the Lit Mag this year?” Phyllis Everette and Ashley Fetterolf looked at each other across the room and their eye-contact was noted by the group. Thus, their fate was sealed.

For nine months, ten intrepid students and their two fearless faculty advisors labored over this literary magazine: wrangling submissions, serving up nachos in exchange for donations, reading, voting, editing, tracking down names, permissions, bios, and laying it all out.

The twelve of us are very proud of the product of literary genius you now hold in your hands. It is the third edition of the Trivium, and the first to be published in both online and print formats. None of this would have been possible without the inspiration of Mr. Voros, who would not let his brainchild, the Indian Creek Literary Magazine, be forgotten in his last year at the school before his retirement. Thank you, Mr. Voros, for checking in on our progress and making excellent s ug ge s t io ns ( “D id you remember to put the name of the school on it?” Good call!)

We’d also like to thank the Narula family for their generous donation, which made a print run of Trivium possible. There is something so satisfying about holding a physical product of nine month’s hard work in one’s hands, and you made it happen.

Thank you!

The students and faculty at Indian Creek are incredibly talented and it was very difficult to winnow the submissions down to just the poetry, prose, and artwork you see in this publication. Every student who was brave enough to submit his or her original work should be proud. We sure are.

Sincerely, Phyllis Everette Ashley Fetterolf